


When the soldiers are singing, our children can sleep

by Whatismoo



Series: Stories of the Faunus War [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-07-26 14:16:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7577290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whatismoo/pseuds/Whatismoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Story of the Faunus Rights Revolution<br/>'<br/>(On Hiatus pending significant re-writes)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Mad Dogs and Atlesians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War is no place for a young man. Groene Ritter came of age in the forests of patch, but will those same forests let him see another day?

Prologue: Mad Dogs and Atlesians

 

Central Patch, Peacekeeping Zone 3, June 14, 20 AGW, late afternoon. (Four Hours Ago)

 

The Atlesian sergeant leant back in his seat. He was tired, and his aura was low. 1st Platoon, Berta company was running itself into the ground. In fact the whole regiment was. There simply weren’t enough bodies to patrol, much less secure, the dozens of villes and hundreds of square kilometers of thick forest which blanketed the island’s hills.

 

He closed his eyes, letting his mind take flight. He pictured himself, khaki fatigues rumpled and sweat stained. Inside the troop compartment was hot, cramped, dirty, reeked of sweat and a dozen colors of dust as the personnel carrier lurched over every hole and rock. The 8 dismounts inside were a rag-tag bunch. Coming from all over Atlas their accents and features were as varied as their clothes, though dulled by months in the field. Young and old, men and women, their faces bore the blank stare of somebody who’s been in the shit too long. They had all seen the elephant. They came for different reasons, some for the money, some for the adventure, some because it was all that was left for them. They were the flotsam and jetsam of society. But they owned him.

 

Pulling back higher he saw 122, his personnel carrier, stained red by the road’s packed clay surface. Atop the hull sat a small turret. Behind that, a clutter of personal effects, ammunition crates, camo netting, and spare wheels. Up higher and the rest of the platoon entered frame. He knew that each PC would be separated by exactly 25 meters. 1st Plt/B Coy. scored best in the battalion over the past three exercises. Everything was by the book. Sadly, the savages hadn’t read the same book.

 

The last ville had been a real shitshow. The platoon sergeant had bit it when a booby trapped box blew up in his face. Their reprisal had left few survivors. Since then apathy enshrouded the platoon like a fog bank. The soldiers moved automatically, their faces blank, their minds in a haze.

 

They rounded a bend in the road. There was a muffled _crump_.

 

“Shit! 121’s down. Driver back quick! Bravo actual, 122, ambush at KP-14 on MSR Madschen, heavy casualties, out”

 

The PC lurched backwards, another _crump_. Bits of 123 pinged off the hull roof.

 

Pvt. Groene Ritter awoke with a shock. He heard a strange noise, nothing good, from the rear of 122, not quite something ricocheting off the armor, but in that neighborhood. As he turned to look back the vehicle ground to a stop with a shriek from the power-pack. Turning back to alert the Sergeant he heard the sound again, louder from forwards, and from the corner of his eye saw the turret gunner’s head flop down onto what remained of his lap, rolling off into the cabin floor. As quick as anything two more of the heavy armor-piercing rounds sliced through the hull leaving more torn and broken bodies in their wake. To his right a woman called out about her arm, called for a medic, asked how bad she was hit. What was left of the medic was burning along with the rest of 121.

 

In seconds the cramped, dirty cabin that for the past months had served as Groene's refuge from the mud and rain and the looks those filthy animals gave him as they patrolled ville after ville, (don't they know we're here to help them?), was now a charnel house, the floor slick with blood and god knows what else.

 

On reflex the young private turned away, a part of his mind noting how peacefully specks of dirt floated in the neat beams of light shining through the new holes in the armor. He unbuckled his seatbelt with his left hand, rifle in his right, and shifted around, reaching for the latch to open the spring loaded side doors. In a well rehearsed action Ritter stepped forward and pivoted, shifting his weight on to what had been an arm until it had a disagreement with a high caliber bullet. Landing squarely on his face his broken nose only added to the rapidly pooling blood on the floor. Groene scrabbled for the hatch release and the doors flew open. He was greeted with a blocky submachine gun held by a figure in a green cloak. A short burst of the gun pulped his face.

 

Zelenii threw a grenade over the Atlesian soldier who nearly ambushed him. He pressed himself against the side of the vehicle, to the right of the door. After a few seconds came the crack of the grenade and he spun with preternatural speed, sending a long burst in through the door.

 

A growing flow of blood trickled out the open hatch, staining the clay a deeper crimson. Zelenii stepped in, taking the dog tags off of what had once been 10 human beings. It had been two minutes since the first bomb had gone off.

 

Tags retrieved he stepped out and looked at the mess where a young boy's face had been. Leaning down to take the corpse's tags he supposed it was a shame to end this life. Or any of them really. But so long as young men and women were dumb enough to fight to oppress, rather than for their and others freedom, he figured he wouldn't have a problem. However noble the cause wars of liberation have just as high a butcher’s bill as any other. Though he had survived long years of fighting all across Remanent his remorse hadn’t. The hunter wondered if he had killed it, or the enemy had. No matter, there was work to be done.

  
Pushing those thoughts aside Zelenii turned to his apprentice, showing her their route on the map as the first heavy drops of rain fell. It was still kilometres to the rendez-vous and ambushing this patrol had slowed them down. It would be dark before they arrived. She grumbled, he simply smiled and responded that he thought she liked a wet pussy. She sighed and called him a motherfucker as the two melted back into the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:Mač is pronounced as the English "match"
> 
> AGW: After Great War. 20 AGW means 60 years before the events of RWBY V1 give or take.
> 
> KP: Kilometer Post
> 
> MSR: Main Supply Route, a major road or street
> 
> See the Elephant: Seen combat. A term dating back to the US Civil War.


	2. If the war should come tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and glossary at the end. RWBY is property of Rooster Teeth, etc etc

Six Weeks Ago, Mistral.

 

Red’s was a dive bar. At least, it was a dive, bar might have been a strong word. Their ‘vodka’ had the unmistakable sweetness of corn whiskey. Still, it got him drunk enough. Zelenii threw back the liquor, turning to the TV on the opposite wall.

 

“... civil disturbance in the cities, and the appearance of pro-faunus rebel groups roaming the countryside drove the Atlesian government, at the request of the Vale council, to shift their involvement from an advisory role to peacekeeping.”

 

Images of rioters clashing with armored paramilitaries complimented the voiceover. They would rush into a melee, then one side would draw back, routed, and the two would bombard each other with bricks, bottles, petrol bombs, rubber bullets and tear gas. As a group of paramilitary troops with assault rifles ran up behind the phalanx of shields and clubs the broadcast cut to the field correspondent at Vale aerodrome, decked out in a beige shirt and safari jacket

 

“Over in the landing area several Atlesian Air Fleet transports have already arrived and begun unloading peacekeepers.”

 

The camera followed his gesture to the tarmac as nearly a dozen of the mammoth grey airships sat disgorging thousands of men, their camouflage fatigues blending into a sea of brown and green as they formed into units and marched off to waiting buses and trucks. A pair of fighter-bombers roared down the runway on full reheat, turning hard towards camera as soon as they were wheels-up. The massive craft rocketed overhead bombs clearly visible under their wings. To the camera operator’s credit he didn't even flinch. The correspondent, however, ducked so hard he lost his balance. Picking himself up, he continued.

 

“As you can see, Mike, the Atlesian airfleet has come loaded for bear, if you’ll pardon the pun…” Mač visibly bristled at that, “... and those fighter bombers have been flying out to pound the terrorists a few times an hour. Things certainly have heated up for the moment here, but let’s hope that this present unpleasantness can be put down quickly.”

 

The reporter continued, but Zelenii tuned it out. Mač stared into the amber suds of her beer. She turned to the cloaked Mistralian

 

“Will we?”

 

“Time will tell, Mač. But now, I think, is time for more drinks.” Tonight he wanted to forget who he was, what he’d seen. If he kept it up perhaps one day, he mused, he’d remember how to be a real person.

 

* * *

 

Three Weeks Ago

 

As he sat staring into the night from the bed of a beat up lorry Zelenii thought back to the last news broadcast he’d seen. When the fighting intensified it didn’t take too long for the press to figure out that the attention grabbing orange outfits drew too much fire, and most had traded their safari vests and press insignia for camouflage, flak jackets, and combat helmets. How things change when the bullets fly. The revolutionaries were being pushed back by the full might of the Atlesian military, except on the island of Patch, where skillful and vicious fighting had earned the local guerilla leader the nickname “The Lion of Patch”. The hunter looked to his apprentice, her eyes glowing in the moonlight.

 

“I’ll take first watch, you need sleep. Soon we will not have time.”

 

The cat faunus curled up around her anti-tank rifle, her deep purple hair blending into the inky shadows of the truck bed. She’d changed since he’d first taken in the skinny brat with fire in her eyes. Grown, learned, bled. To Zelenii the two seemed almost different people, but the same fire remained. He knew that fire. A similar one kept him going when others would not. When others could not. They were kindred spirits, both driven to survive and to avenge. It drove him to fight. Since he became a hunter he had fought. Wherever people, human and faunus alike, battled oppression, he was there. Any sane person would be scared driving into an active war zone. Zelenii felt like he was coming home.

 

* * *

 

Now, Central Patch

 

The hooded figure crouched in the underbrush as a steady rain pelted the canopy above. His callused hands cradled the submachine gun. She isn’t the latest whizbang multi-form weapon turned out from Atlas’ foundries, but there is a steadfast familiarity to her, a single minded determination he trusts his life to. Her name is Алиса.

 

A twig snaps.

 

A muzzle rises silently. With a soft click Alisa is set to full automatic. Shoulders and legs shift under his dark green cloak, ready to spring into action. He flips down the latest toy he’d appropriated from an Atlas patrol, a monocle which used dust to amplify ambient light and infra-red. Another attempt to leverage technology against faunus’ natural advantages.

 

In the flattened greenscale of the eyepiece Zelenii could see the faunus in front of him. He stood nearly two meters tall, holding a shotgun-naginata. Between the rain and the forest canopy there wasn’t enough light to make out any more.

 

“Are you lost, traveller? These are dangerous woods.” The faunus spoke with a clean diction that reminded Zelenii more of a barrister than a guerrilla.

 

“And dangerous time for you and yours. You need help.”

 

The faunus leaned down and looked the hunter in the face. “Who are you?”

 

“The long sobs of autumn violins” The first half of the pass phrase.

 

A second passes. Then another. Finally the Faunus replies

 

“Wounding my heart with a monotonous langour”

 

Zelenii breaths a sigh of relief

 

“You must be the Mistralian.”

 

“My name Zelenii.”

 

“Daveed, What brings you to these shores?”

 

“Same as you,” he produced a small bag from within his cloak and tossed it over. The faunus caught it with a jangling barely audible over the rain. The faunus revolutionary upended the bag into his hand, a tangle of Atlas dog tags. “Freedom.”

 

“Best get moving. Camp is another three kilometers.”

 

Zelenii rose and keyed his radio twice. Mač emerged from the darkness, her small frame dwarfed by the anti-tank rifle she held.

 

* * *

 

While the Lion led the hunter and his apprentice through the dark and stormy night a General wrote a memo.

 

* * *

 

CONFIDENTIAL

To: Atlas PeaceKeeping/Advisory Taskforce - Vale personnel,

 

Update to orders regarding Faunus terrorists and their supporters. Daveed Blau, the so called ‘Lion of Patch’, has been shifted from Kill/Capture to Kill on Sight. Intelligence reports two foreign fighters, one possibly a hunter, have been spotted in the Patch area of operations (PKZ-3). They are dangerous criminals and are suspected of being behind the ambush earlier today. They are to be shot on sight.

 

Due to the increase in attacks the Atlesian Airfleet will be released to pursue actions against area and point targets in zones previously off limits due to collateral damage or the presence of non-combatants. No longer will the animal terrorist savages and their depraved allies be able to hide behind women and children.

 

Shoot first and ask questions later. A few dead animals is nothing to cry over.

 

Lt. Gen. Hans Gelb, CINCAPKAT-V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
> PKZ: Peace Keeping Zone
> 
> The Atlesian fighter-bombers are based on the numerous planes of that type used in Vietnam, in particular the F-4 Phantom II. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1KL9PRwEQZ4 is a good example. 
> 
> That's all for now


	3. We have been nothing, Now be all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RWBY is property of Rooster Teeth, more notes at end.

Zelenii woke with the sun. He rose, set up a hand mirror and prepared to shave but stopped suddenly. The hunter swung Alisa around and fired a short burst into the air, shattering the morning silence. Then he calmly resumed his shaving and watched the chaos unfold.

 

Mač, to her credit, was up in the blink of an eye, a kukri in each hand, whirling around until she saw the look on Zelenii’s face. The five revolutionaries gave a remarkable impression of chickens with their heads cut off, running hither and yon until Daveed managed to return some semblance of order.

 

Having by this time finished his shave, retrieved some dense black bread and butter from his pack, and eaten his morning meal, the Hunter cleared his throat and spoke.

 

“You are all dead. I just kill all of you like that.” He snapped his fingers. “You out here in woods with guns and blades, but not yet guerillas. You post not even single sentry. When shots fired you run and make lots of noise like idiot rabble. Idiot rabble not survive battle with toddler and pointed stick. I teach you to fight. Now do whatever.” With a grunt Zelenii sat and opened a well worn notebook to a fresh page. “Daveed, come. There is much for us to discuss.”

 

The faunus sat across from him. “Tell me essential information. Of them first,” he gestured to the group, “then situation of weapons, supplies, who can trust, and rest”

 

“Well, I’m 38. Before I was a solicitor. I have experience in fighting as a hobby and my own weapon, a the shotgun-naginata.”

 

Zelenii frowned at that and made a note of it. That unique weapon bullshit had played hell with logistics back in the deserts of Menagerie. Sooner or later it would have to go. He pointed to a lanky girl with black hair and red eyes. “Her?”

 

“Charna Royt. 19. She followed me here. A university student. No experience fighting, but she’s the type who’d rather die on my feet than live on her knees.” 

 

Well motivated and smart. A good sign so far. The only good sign, but better to have a mouse in hand than a crane in the sky. He looked to the next in the group. The boy barely looked old enough to shave, but had the cap and pistol belt of the Valeish constabulary. “Where did little wolf get those?”

 

“His name’s Zeff. Local kid. Says he got them off of the men who killed his family. The way he fights I don’t doubt it. He’s got no pity in his hearts for humans, but nobody here knows Patch or her people better.”

 

The hunter made a note to have Mač keep an eye on this one. There is nothing more terrifying than a teenager with a deadly weapon.  He’d learned that lesson the hard way, and hunters don’t live by making the same mistake twice.

 

The last two were chatting together off to the side. Though of similar heights, they couldn’t be more different. The left hand one was built like a peasant, stocky and strong with a pockmarked face, while the right was much thinner. Where the left wore a prodigious moustache, the right was clean shaven. “Left first, then right.”

 

“His name’s Srol. Used to be involved with some political types who mostly spent their time robbing banks and starting riots. Made it here with the secret police on his tail. His friends weren’t so lucky. He’s as communist as they come, but if you need it he can get it, and he’s got a knack for propaganda.”

 

The hunter nodded. Alongside the faunus’ name he wrote ‘Loggie/civvie affairs’. 

 

“The last one’s Zalman. Smart guy. Speaks most of the languages on Remnant. He’s from Menagerie, but you wouldn’t know from how he speaks. His Valeish is better than most native speakers. Spent his time as a mechanic and cook for some shipping company or something. All he’ll say is he traveled a lot. All I know is he’s a damned magician with engines and food.”

 

The hunter nodded. “What is situation of weapons and supplies?”

 

“Weapons aren’t great. We don’t really have guns, save myself and Zeff. In terms of food, there’s plenty to forage, the water is clean, and we’re on good terms with the locals. We don’t have any medical supplies at all, which worries me, but hopefully we should be able to leave any injured with civilians.”

 

“And the enemy?”

 

“Best I can figure they’re stretched thin. As far as we’ve been able to tell they stick to their bases and occasionally send out patrols. Most of their supplies are brought over from the mainland by sea, though they probably can drop things like ammo and food from airships or bring it by chopper.”

 

Zelenii finished scribbling, closed the notebook, and stood.

 

“Let my apprentice and I introduce ourselves. My name Zelenii. I am hunter from Mistral. I became hunter same year of end of great war. After such devastation I made pledge. Until I breathe no more I fight for the freedom of all. Human. Faunus. Everybody. You need no saviour but yourselves.”

 

The violet haired cat faunus dropped down from her perch, apparently unencumbered by the anti-tank rifle she held despite it dwarfing her. “I'm Mač. I've been his apprentice for a year and a half now. You’re in good hands with him. Now, about breakfast? I swore I could smell salt pork.”

 

* * *

 

The day had been a grueling parade of exercise in the heat for the revolutionaries in training. First had come sparring, then a generous lunch followed by what the hunter had all too gleefully described as an “afternoon walk in woods from here to sunset.” After finally setting up camp and eating the rain came and went, leaving a sweltering humidity which robbed the group of much needed sleep.

 

Finally Zeff had enough. “Farkakte mentshlekh.” He spat. “We don’t need his kind. Hunter or not the human must go.” 

 

“Hey, country boy,” said Charna, off to his right, “in case you haven’t noticed we’re sitting in the woods with nothing. I don’t know about you but I’m schvitzing so much my sweat has started sweating. We need all the help we can get.”

 

He grinned, “Oh, what, city slicker can’t hack it in a little rain?”

 

Daveed started rubbing his temples. “Stop your bickering. You’re going to wake the Atleschiks on the mainland, much less the subject of your tirade not ten meters from you.”

 

“Kid’s got a point Daveed. What good is a revolution if we’re being led by a human? What’s to say he won’t turn on us like he did his own kind?”

 

“Because clearly, comrade, he has seen the righteousness of our cause and the inevitability of our victory resulting from the actions of the immutable historical-economic forces which have brought us to this point. He is simply siding with those who can do no other than win.”

 

“From here it doesn’t really look that way right now,” Zalman grinned, “besides, you’re just saying that because you’re a communist.”

 

“And proud comrade Zalman!” Srol deadpanned, before the two of them broke into silent laughter. 

 

“Whatever.” Zeff turned to Daveed. “Can we even trust the human in a fight?”

 

“Oh, he can fight. When we met he threw me a bag of Atlas tags. They reeked of fresh blood, fire, and death. If you’d been paying attention between doing your best mamma bird impression this afternoon you’d have noticed he barely broke a sweat despite jogging who knows how far in the heat.”

 

Zeff rolled his eyes. “He is  _ human _ . We,” he gestured to his fellow guerrillas, “are fighting humans. What makes him special? Why is he any different than the bastards who burned my town, threw me off my land, and killed my parents?”

 

“Do you know who he is?” Anger flashed in Charna’s eyes as she spoke. “He’s Mistrali! They’re completely different!”

 

“You’re defending him?” The wolf jumped to his feet, full of fire and brimstone. “You don’t know what  _ they _ do. You’ve never hidden as your town, everyone you knew and loved, was herded into a barn and burned. You didn’t hear their screams. You didn’t see them loot and rape and murder with smiles on their faces. So please, Miss, sorry Ms. assimilated city slicker with your fancy university education, tell me how the humans really are.”

 

Zeff felt a cool blade press against his neck, and a surprisingly strong arm grabbed him from behind.

 

“I do and I am.” Mač spoke softly, with traces of an Atlesian accent in her vowels. She didn’t have any of the harsh overtones associated with the language. The honeyed mixture of Atlesian and Mistrali accents and the harshness with which she spoke hit Zeff like rebar wrapped in wool. 

 

“After the great war my family was pogrommed out of our town in Atlas and fled to Mistral with nothing. If all you’re going to do with that pretty little tongue of yours is insult a man who’s been fighting this war far longer than all of you combined, who I might add owes me his life a dozen times over, then perhaps you’d like me to cut your throat and make it into a charming necktie.”

 

The blade pressed tighter for emphasis. Zeff didn’t move. “What’s wrong little puppy? Cat got your tongue?” 

 

Tense seconds passed. Zeff wondered if the liquid he felt dripping down his neck was sweat or blood. He wished she would get it over with.

 

“Ahh, don’t piss yourself.” He could hear the smile in her voice as she sheathed her knife. “I’m just fuckin’ with your cute ass. I’m not gonna kill you, your heart’s in the right place and Zelenii’d never forgive me. You’re right. By and large humans are racist shitbags. They took everything, treated me like shit and expected me to smile and ask for seconds. That one, though? He’s mishpocha... _ family _ .”

 

* * *

 

The next month was a whirlwind of exercise, then tactical training, basic medical care, navigation, fieldcraft and reconnaissance. The fighters had come into their own, and for their trial by fire Zelenii had picked a supply convoy, then left them to their own devices to capture it. A week of planning had led up to this. A truckload of weapons and ammunition was on its way from the main Atlas base, Camp Schloss, to resupply a forward observation post at the other end of the island. All the faunus had to do was wait. Zelenii and Mač were nearby in case anything went wrong.

 

The five guerillas had picked a lovely spot for the ambush. Srol had taken up his position in town, a couple kilometers down the road. Over the past week they’d timed the convoys. From his signal they had less than five minutes to get ready. They did it in three. 

 

Charna could feel the sweat dripping down her face. The afternoon sun was stifling under the camouflage cloak, but it was a necessary evil. She knew she was damned near invisible under it, her only protection from the Atlesian’s guns. She closed her eyes and thanked the heavens she wore gloves. No worrying about sweaty palms. They’d rehearsed this a dozen times. Still, she was nervous.

 

Over the drone of approaching engines she heard the Atlesians singing. They closed the distance quickly. One vehicle passed her. She could pick out three voices belting their song out wildly off key.

 

“She is our talisman/Eyes left as best we can/But the Sergeant calls to us/Eyes Straight Ahe-”

 

Their serenade was cut off by a crash. Piano wire was always a harsh critic. A screech of brakes. The truck had stopped right in front of her. She heard a door slam open, and the sounds of retching. She rose, spade in hand, and, charging, let out a cry of “LIBERTY OR DEATH”. The fighter’s world shrank to a dozen meter strip between her and the truck. In seconds she had crossed the distance. She swung her shovel down, and it lodged in the crook of the Atlesian’s neck. She threw the body to the side and leapt into the cab, only to find that Zeff had gotten to the driver first. The fighter retrieved her spade, wiping the blood across her victim’s khaki uniform.

 

Zelenii strolled to the truck, eyeing the overturned jeep a few dozen meters up the road. Zalman was frisking the crew’s corpses for anything of value as Daveed stood guard, shotgun-naginata at the ready. The task complete they retrieved five packs from the treeline. Quickly and efficiently the four faunus began the process of unloading the truck. Charna opened the crates, handing the others brand new standard issue Atlesian rifles, complete with cleaning kits. After that came ammunition, grenades, maps, radios, and explosives, as much as they could carry. They filled a separate bag with medical supplies. Having taken their fill the black cat began wiring a series of blasting caps to a large crate of explosives. 

 

She reached back. “Zalman, drill”

 

He placed a hand drill in her open palm. The dust infused steel bit made short work of  rusted metal. She grabbed a spool of wire and made her way into the cabin. She fed a length back through the hole and cut it, stripping one side of the wire. She took the forward end and taped it to the rear edge of the driver’s side door, hiding the cable from sight. The rear ran to the corresponding spot in the door frame, and back to the truck bed. She attached the forward end of the line to the truck’s battery. Thankfully the door latched open. Moving back into the bed she attached the wire to the bomb. As she made her way out a duffel bag caught her eye. She hefted the additional load and dropped out of the truck. Zelenii smiled and turned, beaming like a parent who’s child had just won their first fighting tournament. The revolutionaries moved out, retrieving Srol and giving the medical supplies to the villagers before disappearing into the night.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later an Atlesian jeep pulled into the town. Ralf Gelb was pissed. He’d been taking a lovely nap in the air conditioning when some dumbass truck driver had failed to make their check in. So now he was out in the boonies looking for them. The morons had probably pulled over for some tail. Lucky bastards. Even a faunus girl was better than a date with rosie palms. The junior lieutenant wiped the sweat from his brow and picked up the radio handset.

 

“Gunter, this is Ralf, I’m at, uhh” He looked down at the map. Fucking Valeish place names. “Stretton-on-Fosse. No sign of the missing truck yet. I’m gonna keep following their route, out.”

 

He sat there for a few seconds, until he wheeled on his driver. “That means fucking go! What are you paid for?” The old staff sergeant sighed, and wondered if the elder Gelb was as much of an asshole. A few kilometers down the road they came upon the truck and jeep. 

 

“Pull up next to it, I want to get out and take a look.”

 

“Sir, are you sure that’s a good idea? There could be booby traps.”

 

“Are you the officer here  _ Sergeant _ ? Do as I say or I’ll have you busted  down to fucking private.”

 

Sgt. Braun pulled alongside the truck, letting the Lt. get out, before reversing back to what he considered a safe distance. Gelb climbed up into the cab and closed the door. The blast launched him forwards and he tumbled along the ground. Even before he’d finished rolling Braun was on the radio, calling for a MEDEVAC chopper. He pulled the jeep over and raced to Ralf. The young lieutenant was dead before the chopper even touched down.

 

* * *

 

“MOTHERFUCKING COCKSUCKING DEGENERATE HALF BREED MOTHERFUCKERS WILL FUCKING PAY IF I HAVE TO ERADICATE EVERY LAST ONE OF THE DISGUSTING ABOMINATIONS!” The General’s secretary sighed. He’d been shouting for over an hour since he heard the news of his son’s death. She didn’t blame him for the reaction, but he was saying some pretty awful things about faunus. They couldn’t be blamed for their natural inferiority, could they?

 

“CINDY, GET ME THE FUCKING AIR OPERATIONS CENTER. AND WHAT TOWN WAS IT? WHEN I’M DONE WITH IT YOU’LL THINK YOU’RE LOOKING AT THE GODDAMNED MOON!” She sighed and picked up the phone. “AND GET ME GENERAL SKORENZY!” When he got like this there wasn’t much you could do but keep your head down and try not to be noticed.

 

* * *

 

At Vale aerodrome ground-crews began checking over, fueling up, and arming the airships of 428 Squadron. The 12 medium bombers carried a mix of 250 and 1000 kg bombs. An hour after sunset they taxied to the runway and launched into the night sky. In the lead plane Flying Officer  Purpur “Ketchup” Hein checked her instruments. Ten minutes to feet wet, an hour over the water, a two minute supersonic, treetop level dash over the target, and then home. She could fly it in her sleep, though the ‘go-pills’ they’d started issuing would make sure she didn’t. The lanky Atlesian  settled into a comfortable cruise 3,000 meters above the wavetops.

 

As they went ‘feet dry’ over Patch’s shores Hein’s bombardier, F/O Mike “Sportin” Wood signaled all systems were operating normally. Ketchup dove to treetop level and pushed the throttles to their stops, activating the engines’ reheat. Two ten meter long streaks of purple flame accelerated the airship through the sound barrier, wings sweeping back until the silhouette took the shape of an arrow lancing through the night, on the way to strike Atlas’ enemies. Flying through the air at more than two hundred kilometers per hour faster than the speed of sound she knew they wouldn’t hear her coming. The attack suite was set to automatic and the radar was in terrain following mode. Compared to her old lead sled these new kites practically flew themselves. At a calculated point the bombing computer automatically signalled the release. Twenty-four 250 kilogram incendiary bombs dropped in less than a second, each propelled by a quartet of blank shotgun shells. Less than ten meters below the plane the fuse extended and high-drag petals sprang open, allowing Ketchup and her Weapons Systems Officer to escape their blast radius.

 

The townspeople of Stretton-on-Fosse, human and faunus alike, had only seconds to react after the airship’s sonic boom cracked windows. When each bomb’s fuse struck the ground it  ignited a small bursting charge, bathing the surrounding area in burning jellied fire dust. The raid continued, a ‘ship dropping its load every thirty seconds for five minutes. After a minute pause a two ‘ship formation at higher altitude dropped 8 1000kg high explosive bombs as a coup de grace.

 

* * *

 

Ten kilometers away Zelenii bolted upright. He stared upwards, searching for the telltale light of a supersonic airship on reheat. No sooner had he spotted it than a second ‘ship passed, lower and closer than the first. Soon after came the rolling thunder of distant bombs from back at the town. After the raiders passed and the explosions stopped the Mistralian gathered the others. It would be a long march, especially in the dark.

 

They reached Stretton an hour before dawn. 

 

In the morning twilight even Zelenii could see nothing was left. Stretton-on-Fosse itself was gone, surrounded on all sides by hundreds of meters of charred tree trunks and blackened soil. The air stank of fire and death. A deafening silence blanketed the area. They forced down a cold breakfast in silence. A sanguine dawn broke, drenched in the blood of the innocent. After an hour of futily searching for survivors the seven took turns washing in the river, careful to stay upstream of the scorched earth. As Srol stood chest deep in the icy water a lone Atlesian airship rocketed over head. Zelenii started planning their next move. He and Daveed had much to discuss.

 

* * *

 

In the back of a modified truck parked off to the side of Vale Aerodrome Sgt. Hannah Schokolade peered at a reel of film with a jewelers loop. The reconnaissance analyst was one of the few Faunus serving in the Atlesian military. She sighed, hoping to get the latest bomb damage assessment done with so she could go smoke. She was covering the night shift alone again after the other two members of the Image Interpretation section labeled a pair of mating horses an “insurgent transport production facility” and showed up to work off his ass on some drug or other one too many times. Frankly she didn’t mind the reprieve from their cat calls. An oddly appropriate turn of phrase, she mused, opening the last canister.

 

Forty meters into the 60 meter roll she found the images she was looking for. The target had essentially ceased to exist. Satisfied, she cut the film out and sent it to be developed, stuffing two frames in her jacket pocket. She’d write the detailed analysis later. The sergeant made a note for the topographical office to remove Stretton-on-Fosse from their maps. She jumped down from the mobile darkroom and walked the short distance to her office. The tiger faunus sat, lit her pipe, and burned the two negatives in her ash tray. As she savored the sweet tobacco she wondered if the rebels knew how close they’d came to being discovered. Tossing her cap on the desk, she ran a hand through her striped hair, shorn to the regulation buzz cut, and massaged her sore ears. With a sigh Hannah reached for the bottle in the bottom left drawer. Her stash of plum brandy was quickly becoming the only thing keeping her sane at this job. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The faunus speak with some yiddish words thrown in, glossed below.
> 
> Glossary
> 
> Farkakte Mentshlekh: pig-shit human, though colloquially farkakte generally is more akin to 'bullshit' in English.
> 
> Schvitzing: sweating, generally feeling hot and gross
> 
> Atleschik: Atlesian in Faunus
> 
> Pogrom: the organized massacre of an ethnic group
> 
> Mishpocha: (pronounced mishpukha) Family, though often meant in a broader sense than just relation by blood or marriage.
> 
> Dustoff: MEDEVAC (MEDical EVACuation) or CASEVAC (CASualty EVACuation), specifically by helicopter.
> 
> Notes
> 
> The song sung by the men in the jeep is a translation of Augen Gradeaus, an East German marching song.
> 
> Callsigns are given, not chosen, hence their propensity towards puns. Also common are references to unusual physical features or embarrassing stories, such as: "FISH" (Fuck Is She Huge) or "B-K" *(Bambi Killer, for accidentally shooting a deer during a gunnery exercise)
> 
> The Medium bomber is based on the F-111D "Aardvark" nicknamed the Pig by it's crews, Ketchup's previous plane, called a "lead sled" would be the F-105F "Thunderchief." The photo recon plane is based on the RF-4B
> 
> Much of the information about photo reconnaissance is based on that found here: http://1stmibarsinvietnam.org/


	4. And Death All Around Will be Your Dowry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RWBY is property of RoosterTeeth, Notes at end

The group had agreed to lay low for a while, but that didn’t stop them from planning. They all wanted blood. Zelenii and Daveed checked the captured maps for targets, and settled on Fire Base Werfer. It was geographically isolated, located on top of a mountain. Each of the truck mounted rocket launchers based there could drop 40 high explosive rockets anywhere within a twenty kilometer radius in under a minute and a half. The Atlesians called them ‘Hail’ for a reason. Srol and Zalman left the next day to reconnoiter the base, returning after a week and a half.

 

Srol did the talking while Zalman drew a diagram in the dirt. “The base isn’t such a tough nut to crack, except it’s at the top of a decent mountain. There’s no roads to get there, everything comes in by air. Once a week the biggest fuckin’ chopper I’ve ever seen comes by to resupply. We counted around 130 there, about half and half artillerists and infantry. There’s only a chain link perimeter, not even sentries at night, like they think they’re invincible or something. The two most important objectives would be these two structures, here and here.” He gestured to Zalman’s diagram, and continued his observations. “The larger is the barracks, the other is the command bunker. Our best bet would be to hit them the second night after they resupply. It’s only a three hours travel on foot from the closest town, and I can get us a ride there. The issue, as I see it, is that we don’t have enough people to neutralize both the bunker and barracks simultaneously. Obviously the command post takes priority, they can call for help, but the soldiers in the barracks could really do us some damage.”

 

Charna turned and headed over to her gear. “Actually I have something for that” She returned with large duffle bag marked with an olive drab and red symbol somewhere between a radiation trefoil and a biohazard sign. She opened it, revealing a number of sealed plastic packages. “In here is enough chemical warfare gear for an Atlesian squad. That’s 9 and there’s 7 of us, so we should be covered. I found it along with a bunch of tear gas grenades when we raided the truck. I had one of these back at uni after getting caught up in protest on the way to class. This shit’s nasty, especially indoors.”

 

The guerrillas continued to put together their plan through the night. In the morning they packed their camp and made their way to a clearing where they piled into Srol’s contact’s truck. They arrived well after dark, and began making their way up the mountain. Finally, after forty hours on the road they made it to a satisfactory base camp a kilometer down the mountain from the relay. The next day Charna, Srol, and Zalman began observing the Atlesians in four hour shifts. The resupply came around noon. The timing was set. The guerrillas spent the next day exercising in their gas masks to get used to fighting in them. All too soon the night of the operation came, and they suited up.

 

Charna soon found that the chemical suits were extremely unpleasant. By their nature they were air and water tight, so any sweat just pooled in her boots, they were cumbersome to move in, and you couldn’t tell who anybody was. That said, she thought, looking the others over, they were fucking terrifying. The seven guerillas made their way to the target, splitting up before they crossed the wire. She and Mač made their way towards the bunker. They cut the chain link fence wide, careful not to puncture their suits. The tear gas wouldn’t hurt them if they did get a puncture, but Charna knew how much of a pain it was to wash out. The two climbed up to the roof and awaited the signal from across the way. One of the other group raised his fist and pumped it twice. The two tossed gas grenades into the ventilation system, then leapt down, chucking more in the entrance until the bunker was full of the thick white gas. Charna shot two of the Atlesians as they stumbled out the door covered in snot and tears, tangled in their rifle slings. She led the way in, Mač gleefully finishing off anyone unlucky enough to survive the black cat’s wrath with her pair of kukri. Finally, having worked their way through every room, the two made their way back out. Mač lifted her radio to the voice emitter at the front of her mask. “Bunker clear, we’re crossing.”

 

“Roger, double check to make sure we didn’t leave anyone alive behind us.” Daveed replied.

 

The two women jogged across to the barracks. Charna noticed Mač had picked up a shortened rifle with a folding stock along the way. The two entered the building. This time the apprentice took point, calmly putting a burst of rifle fire into every body she found. The guerrilla found herself wondering if the purple haired girl in front of her was enjoying this. They finally arrived at the last room, and were met with the image of two Atlesian officers cowering on the floor, while the Daveed and Zelenii argued in the faunus dialect.

 

“I want blood, Zelenii. There were no survivors at Stretton, why should we leave some if they don’t”

 

“Daveed, we should at least leave one alive to tell them what happened here. It doesn’t have the same effect otherwise.”

 

“Fuck the effect, I say kill them both”

 

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I have been at this a lot longer than you. There’s a method to things”

 

“They killed women and children Zelenii.”

 

“Who are not the first, nor will be the last to die because of indiscriminate bombings, whether we kill these two idiots or not”

 

With a thock one of Mač’s kukri embedded itself in the forehead of the older of the two Atlesians. All eyes followed the cord attached to the kukri’s hilt back to the cat’s hand.

 

She shrugged. “You clearly weren’t getting anywhere and it would be a shame to kill the cute one. Come on, we need to leave.”

 

Dumbfounded, Zelenii and Daveed nodded and left the room. The rest followed. Before leaving Zeff crouched in front of the Atlesian.

 

“When they ask who did this, you tell them it was the Lion of Patch. Now, if you move from this room before the sun rises, I’ll come back and kill you. Slowly.”

  
The lieutenant nodded and the wolf shut the door behind him.

 

Srol and Zalman went about collecting what information seemed useful, while Charna and Zelenii rigged the rocket launchers and ammunition dump. The guerillas left the base the way they came. A half hour later the six launchers blew in quick succession, followed by a massive blast from the ammunition dump. Secondary explosions continued for hours, burning ordinance lighting the mountaintop like day.

 

* * *

 

The sun had risen by the time they were back at the base camp. They took off the chemical suits and masks. The masks went back in their carriers, but the chemical suits had to be discarded. They made their way to the safe house in town, arriving without incident. It turned out to be much nicer than any of them had expected, a ski lodge out of use in the summer. After a quick rinse and change into civilian clothes Zalman began working his magic in the kitchen while the rest of the fighters enjoyed the luxuries of society. By 0945 the entire group was fast asleep, draped over various pieces of furniture or each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes
> 
> The "Hail" rocket launchers are based on the BM-21 "Grad". The "Biggest fucking chopper" refers to something like an Mi-6 "Hook" or an HH-3 "Jolly Green Giant". The information regarding chemical warfare equipment and tear gas is as accurate as can be conveyed without sacrificing pacing or plot.


End file.
